


In Sickness, Health and Paperwork

by TelanadasFenharel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sickfic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelanadasFenharel/pseuds/TelanadasFenharel
Summary: The work of the Inquisitor is not an easy one. It is not a cushy desk job, though he does spent long hours hunched over both maps and missives.It is not the well-ordered work of a soldier, though he does find himself in many battles both great and small.And it is not the work of a pathfinder, though he does spent many nights under open sky and marking land.Is it any wonder, then, that work so laborious, dangerous and abundant leaves the Inquisitor laid flat from time to time?Likely not.Fortunately, there are those who will shoulder the burden when Pirel Lavellan can not.
Relationships: Male Lavellan & Cullen Rutherford, Male Lavellan & Solas (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 14





	1. Solas

It started with certain... incongruities. Nothing truly out of the ordinary, merely scraping past the standards Solas had grown used to.

For one, the time.

Time was soft in dreams, yes. Able to stretch and dance about, moments, hours, heartbeats passed without much consistency. But one who had a certain experience in their Dreaming could somewhat tell the time. And there were few quite as experienced as Solas, naturally.

He had wandered in his own Dreaming, not searching out spirits to converse with. Instead he had pondered the next increment of the fresco and practiced without much care. In here, after all, one could afford blunders and idle whims and so if Solas wished to splatter his wall-high canvas with dreamed up paint, he would.

So it was with some surprise when Solas found Lavellan's dream, drifting lazily and without direction, outside the time than one could usually find him, and decided to visit. It was early yet, certainly earlier than what he was used to. Perhaps their last expedition had tired him out to the point that early rest had become necessary.

The Inquisitor was used to all-nighters and frantic work throughout much of his free time. If he was not out there in the wilds, dragging who-knew-who into who-knows-where, toppling world-ending threats and their ilk, he battled the endless bore that was paperwork. That, or he hunched over his war table and reports by the crate full.

Not that Solas greatly minded. Instead he bid entry when he found the familiar presence floating about and was given entry like one might open their front door to a guest.

The sensations were somewhat odd, not what could usually be found here. Pirel's dreams were things of blueberries plucked after rain and the rich sap of evergreens. Snowmelt that chilled the throat and day-old bread, still crisp around the crust. Those were things, sensations, always present. That obnoxiously overbearing scent of Dorian's soap, for a while now.

These were... not. Not as they should be. All was muted and faint, twisted together in ways no scent, no sound, no touch should. Nightmare?

Once, weeks after they had established themselves in Skyhold and everything had had time to truly settle in, the stench of smoke and burning flesh, endless screams of both abominations and friends had ravaged Pirel's dreams. Solas had taken care to make certain they would not stay.

But Solas found no terror and no stench of fire, smoke and red lyrium after he curiously probed about the dream, testing for rot like one might a fruit. It was still not right regardless. He wandered across the ground that was slightly squishy and far too warm. Did it tremble underfoot? Solas did not stop to check.

And then, under a vein-blue sky, he found the dreamer at last.

“My friend,” Solas began, for it was indeed a fond pleasure to explore dreams with him. Something done between friends. This one, not so much but he needn't tell Pirel that. Perhaps the dream could be steered onto more pleasant paths instead. 

Pirel turned and did so as if drunk and this was the third strangeness. Ears halfway hanging, limp and thoughtful. “Wh--” startled eyes took in this new visitor. “Oh, Solas. Hello. Didn't even hear you coming.”

It had been quite some time since Solas had begun to nudge the Inquisitor along the path of Dreaming. “I did not think I would find you here so early.”

Pirel grinned lopsided, “Well, where else would I be?” He did not quite look as if he was so certain himself just where he was.

“Where else indeed?” Solas asked and looked around. To peer at another dream so closely was an intimate sort of bond Solas did not share with many. Truths could be found in dreams, things not everyone should simply be able to dig around in. 

Pirel had never visited one of Solas' dreams.

Aravels and Haven featured often in Pirel's dreams. Halla of different hues pranced about. Snippets of conversation that had lodged themselves in his ears to mull over later. Half-remembered faces. Skyhold had begun to creep into the larger picture and appeared more and more often, though sometimes doors led back into Haven's Chantry.

But this was not at all the familiar chaos Solas had grown familiar with. This was just-- chaos.

“Ah,” Solas said as he beheld the strange mingle-mangled gallimaufry that was this dream's setting. Haven and Skyhold, at least jumbled approximations of them, smashed together like some child's attempt at architecture. Here and there, forest grew and the smell of coast tugged at the edges of perception.

The Inquisitor's tower with its ivy vines stuck sideways out of the Chantry building.

“Why?” Pirel asked and sounded earnestly confused, “What's wrong with it?” He looked back at the roiling mass of stone and wood, still twisting slowly. "Looks perfectly fine to me."

Smoke plumed thickly in the distance and the red hoods of dalish aravels trundled along an ever shifting horizon. It roiled like the waves on the Storm Coast and yet no water could be seen.

“Ah,” Solas said again, though this one came from understanding or at least the beginning of it. Lucidity was swiftly breaking apart, folding into itself as this dream overwhelmed. Not entirely gone, certainly Pirel was dreaming quite vividly at the moment. But it was not the controlled sort of focus Solas had come to know of him.

Warm snow drifted over his skin and Solas wiped away flakes that felt feverish and pulsing. A fever dream then. Very much alike to a lucid one but little of it fun. Solas huffed and turned towards Lavellan who swayed a little and attempted to wander away.

“It is best if you woke up, Inquisitor. I shall be with you shortly.”

Pirel stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending, and vanished when Solas pushed him from his own addled dream. The construct, now without its confused architect, followed suit and Solas awoke as well moments later. 

Not one to leave a friend to unneeded suffering, he peeled the blanket thrown over himself away and made towards the Inquisitor's tower.

Nondescript and silent did Solas stalk Skyhold's corridors and only those in the Rookery had seen him leave.

To where was no one's business but his own. And the Inquisitor's, of course. There were not many people Solas would have chosen over an excursion in the Fade, after all.

* * *

Caught unaware, between the filmy blinking of eyes that would not focus and viscid remants of dreams not easily shaken, Pirel made some half-startled noise at the sight of Solas and fell back into the mattress. 

“I apologise for the intrusion,” Solas said in the way of greeting.

The air was still warm but the flames in the fireplace burned low and would extinguish soon if no one did anything. Too little fuel had been used.

Pirel, lightly chattering and blankets twisted every which way around himself, kicked away pillows not quite propping him up, waved him or tried to, “S' fine--” He turned over, to the stained glass window and blinked again. “I—Time?” Keeping it to the very basics did not seem to help, Solas decided.

“We have not quite reached the small hours,” Solas said. “The war table has not yet gathered.”

That placated the Inquisitor and a tiny bit of confused tension left him. A slender hand, cool to the touch, tensed him once more for a moment.

“You are quite warm to the touch,” Solas informed him helpfully and removed his hand after a moment. Not surprising, really. If anything, that it had not happened sooner. How many times could one tumble into freezing rivers and not grow sick from it? "A fever, at least. We shall see how it progresses. Anything else that troubles you? Pain?"

“Hm--?” Pirel asked and perhaps would have continued if the chatter of his teeth had not cut him short. Conversation moved too fast, evidently, and Lavellan was still caught up with Solas' arrival.

“Yes, I rather thought so. Stay here for a moment.” Not that the Inquisitor appeared to be capable to do much else but lie there like a half-cooked fish. Soon to be parboiled if no one did anything.

And since Solas had found him like this, it seemed, he would be the first to do something.

* * *

When Solas returned, Pirel had vanished under the blankets entirely. Not even hair spilled from under the fabric, everything had been stuffed down, away from the terrible chill that had begun to seep into him. 

“This will make you even worse,” Solas said, plunked down the pitcher of water he had brought and grappled for the edge of the blanket. A feat in itself, every corner had been stuffed under Lavellan to keep perceived warmth in. “Don't be so difficult, lethallin.”

I'm cold,” muttered the lump under the blankets and made feeble attempts to resist the pulling.

“There is little that can be done about that at the moment,” Solas said and braced one leg against the wooden bed frame, mercilessly pulling all the while.

Whining, muffled and miserable, came bleeding through the fabric.“You helped me in Haven. I was nearly frozen then, why not now?” He sighed deeply, it petered out into a soft, pained moan and wide eyes implored Solas to do something. “I have work to do tomorrow.” 

“That was hypothermia, among many other things,” Solas said even as he felt at the ever heating forehead, “In dire need of alleviation because otherwise there would have been precious little left of you. But this--” Solas said and finally ripped the entire swath of blanket free. “Fever is only the symptom, not the cause.”

“Hypothermia sounds more serious than fever. Can't you do anything? Please?”

“I brought water,” Solas said and inclined his head to the pitcher he carried. “And I have some time to look after you.”

“Can't you just heal me? Solas, please.”

“Ir ableas, da'len. If I take away the fever then what will you do to defend yourself?” For fever, disagreeable and unpleasant as it was, it was also necessary.

“Blast it to pieces, has worked in the past.” By now, the only part that had not begun to flush bright red were the vallaslin. The chill had not abided and if anything had now begun to truly settle in to stay. Clawing at bones without mercy, without respite.

“Truly a wonder why no healer ever attempts such sound plans.”

“Agh,” came the reply, very eloquent that one, and Pirel turned over to clutch at his head. Cold and hurting, 

“This, I can help with.” Solas sat on the edge of the mattress and leaned in towards the middle, a hand outstretched. Light so unlike the dimming fire crackling away in the fireplace, burst forth from it and washed the walls in shimmering color. 

Healing, in itself, nothing new. There were too many instances where it was needed. The Anchor troubled Lavellan, had done so from the very beginning. Not quite so fiercely with the biggest Rift plugged, but still the wards lacing his arm decay and need to be touched up frequently.

Pirel has never shown doubt over Solas' use of it and remains open-minded towards magic. A fine trait.

It was refreshing to find a Dalish with such open curiosity and a will to learn about things he did not understand. As opposed to sticking it full of arrows and then moving on as if nothing had ever happened. Not that the Dalish were unique in that sort of reaction, though they certainly defaulted to it all too quickly.

When only embers remained in the fireplace, the only light now for it was dark outside and the moon was obscured, Solas pulled both hand and himself away to look at his work. “There? Better?”

A bit of the clouded pain was gone, eyes looked about clearer though this would not last. “Ma serannas, Solas,” Pirel said and pulled himself more comfortably into his bed. No longer only slouched onto the mattress. “Sorry for whining,” Pirel said and smiled. Tried to, at least. Better was not well.

“If anyone is entitled to it,” Solas said and filled the cup he had brought. He handed it over, heldit until certain that Pirel had grasped for it and would not simply spill it all over the blankets. “Drink water and plenty of it, it will help. And rest.” The very worst sickness had to offer all too often came during the night, the time when relaxation was most dearly needed. 

“I'm sorry to have kept you from your work,” Pirel said after he had returned the cup. “I know you looked forward to work in peace.”

“I came of my own volition, da'len, no one forced my hand.”

“Still...”

Solas hummed, a pleasing, amused sound. “Rest, Pirel. I shall look after you in the night.”

And he did, until Pirel fell into exhausted slumber that would not leave him much recovered. But he did stay, as promised and left only when the small hours were well behind them.


	2. Cullen

A note was left on the war table, marked with Josephine's name in elegant writing.

Solas had left it there and promptly gone to do whatever it was he did when not pacing around the Rookery or painting his murals.

Now three advisors stood around the table, looked at the many pins stuck all over the map and then at each other and found themselves without an Inquisitor.

“Someone has to check on him,” Leliana finally said and toyed with one of the raven pins.

“Agreed, we can't have him languish away in his quarters,” Cullen said. “I will have a healer send over; Someone discreet.”

Josephine nodded. “Not that word of it won't get out soon enough, but there is no need to shout it from the rooftops.”

Yes, someone truly should do all that. Preferably soon, there was work to do, after all. The Inquisition would continue in its leader's absence, it could do so for a short while. But the work never ceased.

“Well?” Josephine asked into the room. “Any volunteers?”

* * *

No one stopped him when Cullen opened the first of the two doors that led up into the Inquisitor's quarters.

Sacrifices had to be made and of course Cullen had volunteered right after loosing at pulling straws. Because someone had to make certain the Inquisitor was taken care of, though no one was eager to catch whatever had laid him flat.

If past events were any indication, it took quite some effort to make him slow down or even stop entirely.

True, the Inquisitor had been laid low temporarily, fever and chills according to Solas' note. A cold? Worse? No sense in worrying overmuch. Cullen was no healer and so he kept his council in matters such as these. But he could not imagine a Pirel who was not moving, was not preparing, was not working for any prolonged time.

Indeed, the only time Cullen could remember seeing him fully insensate had been right after the siege on Haven. And even then, not hours later being frozen nearly to death, he had already been up again, planning again, commanding again.

Cullen knew the feeling of helpless suffering, knew it far too well. The weakness and the persistence with which it stayed, never leaving entirely. And he knew the need to continue despite that.

Well, if the Inquisitor had not minded Cullen nearly pelting him with the remnants of his lyrium supply, then Cullen would not quail at the prospect of finding the Inquisitor in less than presentable shape. He did not expect to find him wilting, close to death, whimpering. But one could never know for certain.

* * *

The first thing Cullen noted when he had scaled the stairs to the quarters was the fact that the Inquisitor was not in bed. Instead there was a lumbering lump in front of the fireplace, stationary but ever so slightly quivering. Had Cullen been given to exaggeration, he would have claimed this lump to be comprised of every blanket Skyhold had to offer. Plus one elf. 

“If I slept for three days again, I will be so angry,” Pirel groaned from the depths of his nest. “What time is it?” His voice wavered, reduced to a pale imitation of what it usually was.

“It is a little after breakfast,” Cullen told him. He himself had skipped that, the morning had greeted him with queasiness. But he could make up for that later.

“ _Oh_ \--” Pirel gurgled miserably and Cullen took this as his hint to spare him any meals until something would stay down again. He knew the sentiment, after all. “Wonderful time to catch something...”

“You need the rest,” Cullen tried instead. “Anger won't help you in this.” Though this was preached far easier than said. Cullen's first instinct was, after all, to throw something until things made sense again. Somehow he doubted this would be of much use now. “Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I'm not. Not at myself,” Pirel said and _masterfully_ evaded Cullen's question, “In general. This entire situation could not have come at a worse time.”

“To be fair, there is never an opportune time for getting sick.” And was that not said out of experience?

Pirel sighed, though it could have been a well-worn rumble just as well. Instead it sounded quite rusty. “True. Does't change the fact that I have things to do.” He blinked oddly, as if this tiny reflex caused him strain. Perhaps his eyes hurt.”I am entitled to it, I think. I hope. Tell me so, Cullen. Reassure me.” That last part had carried with it the authority of the _Inquisitor_. Not quite the Inquisitor who judged criminals he had dragged from wherever it was he was traipsing through, but rather the one who asked for summaries of his reports and snarked about.

“You are entitled to get mad, Inquisitor,” Cullen said and even if he had not been ordered to, it would have been the truth.

And so appeased, the _Inquisitor_ was tucked away again for Pirel to return. “Thank you, Cullen.” Something like movement happened, though flopping might have been more accurate. “If you wouldn't mind lending me a hand for a small matter?”

“Of course.” And after that he could hopefully convince him to go to bed.

“There is--” Pirel turned to look over his shoulder, fumbled for the words for a moment, snapped his fingers to jostle his cotton-stuffed memory,“-- _Spindleweed_. There,” he pointed to the room without a door that walled off a little section of his quarters. “I hung them up to dry. Fetch me some? I really don't want to get up... And elfroot. Please.”

Cullen did, stepped into the little room with the low ceiling where threads had been strung in neat rows. From each hung plants, elfroot and spindleweed, embrium and whatever healing herb he had scavenged, hung up to dry. The poisons and things that carried unpleasant odor had been stored away safely. Out of sight and accidental reach.

“They are labeled!” came the call, the and that was Cullen's cue that he had lingered long enough. Instead he plucked a few of the spindleweed sprigs, pulled at the elfroot until it came lose and returned to the Inquisitor who busied himself with pulling the kettle from the flames.

“Let me,” Cullen said and lifted the kettle for him. It was not heavy, merely a trifle, token effort.

Pirel allowed it, crushed the herbs he had been given and threw them unceremoniously into his tea pot before Cullen poured water over it.

“Thank you.” He inhaled the steam that swirled like curling eddies towards the ceiling, blew once and nipped at the edge of his cup, imbibing little of his tea at once. Not that there was any true need to scald his mouth on top of everything else. “I would offer you some,” Pirel said and nodded towards the pot, “Though I sincerely doubt you would enjoy this particular blend.” A hand came snaking out of the blankets to rub at his temple and vanished again.

“That's alright,” Cullen said because steeped elfroot and spindleweed did indeed not sound like something he wished to break his fast with. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Cullen asked instead.

A thoughtful pause, just enough to slurp tea and grimace at the taste. “You could sneak me some paperwork,” Pirel said and smirked at Cullen with a shrewd, impish grin. “No sense to waste so much time loafing around.”

This was dangerous territory to brave. To indulge him in his wishes would help him not at all. “I will not.” And in this Cullen would remain firm because someone needed to be. “I can help you back to bed instead.”

“Very subtle,” Pirel said but did not resist when Cullen steadied him and Cullen, in turn, did not mention the intense shaking. The quiet rattling noises against his armor could be ignored. “I hope you know that I shall remember this, Cullen.”

“Remember what, Inquisitor?”

“This blatant mothering, don't think I didn't notice.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Cullen said and pulled a duvet from the heap of blankets still in front of the fire.

“Are we trying to be clever, Cullen?”

“I do try, yes,” Cullen admitted and threw the blanket over Pirel until the elf was covered. The shivering did not stop but Cullen made once more no mention of it. Some pride needed to be preserved and this he also knew well.

Pirel sighed, pressed a palm to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. That passed quickly. The smirking returned as he turned onto his side, regarding Cullen in an almost feline manner. “Know that the next time you feel under the weather, Cullen, that I will be there to mother you to death.”

Cullen blinked, “That's... really not necessary.” Because Maker only knew he would never get back to work. Few things could hope to resist when the Inquisitor truly set his mind to them.

His eyes did not glitter with mirth, still dark and hooded from fever and heat that wished to pull them close. But that did not stop him. Instead it felt as if he was just now gathering pace to continue, “Oh, I disagree, fair is fair. No, no, do not worry. I will bring you soup and pester you up that ladder, urging you to rest and to sleep.”

“Inquisitor--”

But Pirel was not done threatening kindness, “Commander,” thoughtful, impish despite the fever, “Perhaps I will even fix that roof of yours. Personally, if you keep insisting on sending away the carpenters.”

“I did no such thing,” Cullen said, but even to his own ears, this did sound rather weak. He would never get to work in peace if he did. And besides...

“Glaring perniciously at them counts.”

“...It does _not_ ,” Culled said. And for good measure he added, “I like fresh air.”

“What _do_ you do when there are storms?” Pirel asked. “It occurs to me that I never asked. But since you are still here, evidently, and you have not been blown away...”

“During storms I get a lot of fresh air,” Cullen explained.

And it would have continued like this, possibly forever, if sudden coughing had not cut Pirel off with finality. It gave Cullen an excuse to fetch him his tea and by then most of Pirel's wit had been fried, burned away under fever that now returned in earnest.

“I will have send someone over to take a look at you. No sense in letting this drag out unnecessarily.”

“Aye commander,” Pirel said and barely sounded miserable at all.

"Rest well, Inquisitor," Cullen said and received no answer. Quietly, he made his way down the stairs and closed the door behind him. There was, after all, still work to do.


	3. Cole

It had been years since he had thought of the glade. Some nameless thing, impossible to find on any map, merely stumbled upon by luck. Their aravels with their red silk hoods had stood out like strange flowers between the dark verdant endlessness.

Pirel, young then –much younger, not yet painted-- had loved it there, between fern and the little stream their halla had drank from. Fun had been had there, the uncomplicated fun of childhood.

They had plucked blueberries from the fringe of bushes growing there and hunted for frogs and little, silvery fish. And everywhere he had looked, there had been tiny flowers, bright and yellow against dark vegetation, until every single one had gleamed like a star.

He would not have thought of it now, whatever passed as _thought_ in this feverish mess of tangled half-dreams, had there been no prompting.

But there was.

* * *

The guards had been prompted to overlook him, explaining took away time used for important things. Instead he had made his way undisturbed, unnoticed and this was, despite everything, the way he knew best.

There was no need to have the Inquisitor forget when he had never noticed him there in the first place. And besides that, the rules for him where a little different.

All the same, the cup filled to the brim with tiny, yellow flowers was placed carefully on the little table and their scent filled the air.

From his bed, asleep but not at rest, Pirel's nose flared, rib cage expanded as he breathed deeply. 

And for a time, Pirel would know only peace as he dreamed of days long past. This Cole knew and left, satisfied with his work. He had helped and all was well.


End file.
